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“Kind of a sore subject, don’t you think?” Miles has his goaltender helmet under his arm, and he skates in a wide circle around us. “Betting on a game?”
“A friendly game,” Knox corrects. “Between friends.”
His brother rolls his eyes.
“How are we playing this?” I ask, eyeing them.
The only ones who couldn’t make it out were Jacob and Melody. She’s preparing for an art show that we’ll all be attending next week. Willow and Violet are spending the day at the ballet studio, leaving the five of us here.
“Two on two,” Knox says. “Obviously. If you bring the puck into the zone, you’re on offensive. If defense gets possession, you have to take it out and bring it back in. Fair?”
We all nod and break off to warm up. Nothing serious—or maybe it is. I suddenly have butterflies in my stomach. Knox comes up next to me and taps my skate with the blade of his stick.
“Like riding a bike,” he offers.
“Uh-huh.”
We’ve been on the ice a few times in the last month while we planned this trip. So as much as he’s offering support, he’s really just blowing smoke up my ass.
Finally, the five of us meet in the center of the rink.
“Pair up,” Miles says, sliding his helmet on his head.
“I’ve got Sunny,” Knox immediately says.
Greyson and Steele exchange a look and shrug at each other.
I bite back my smile.
Since there’s no one to drop the puck, Knox and Greyson face off for a classic rock-paper-scissors game. Greyson wins, so Knox and I move back toward Miles.
“Just like old times.” I beam at both of them.
They mirror my expression.
I adjust my helmet and stick, slip my mouthguard in, and wait. Steele brings the puck down. Knox drifts up to meet him, while Greyson moves down my side. Steele passes to Greyson, who takes a fast slap shot at Miles.
Luckily our goalie is nothing to sneeze at. He bats it away, and after a quick scuffle, Knox reclaims the puck.
We skate out of the zone, regrouping, and he passes it to me.
“Take it down.”
I cradle the puck and push it out ahead of me, charging down the line. Greyson is ready, and I sneak a pass to Knox. I dodge around Greyson, getting in close to Miles. Knox whips it back to me, and I deflect it at the goal. The quick hit reverberates up my stick, the angle changing too fast for Miles to catch.
It goes in.
“Yeah!” Knox cheers. He skates for me. He picks me up and spins me around, patting my helmet. “Just like that.”
“Oh, game fuckingon,” Greyson calls.
I grin.
Defense. I spent a lot of time watching guys play hockey. Maybe not Greyson or Steele, but most have a tell. And it only takes another play—in which they score on Miles and knock Knox into the boards—to figure out Greyson’s.
When he angles toward the net, I lunge forward and somehow intercept that shit. I take it fast out of the zone. Knox follows, just barely getting over the paint before we’re diving back in. No rest for the wicked, right?
Out of sheer annoyance, I take it down and almost collide with Greyson, spinning and sending the puck dancing between his legs. Knox lets out a whoop, and I fake a shot at Miles. It lures him out, and I tip the puck toward Knox, whose slap shot is fucking wide.
